Next day I was back at Limerick by the middle of
the afternoon. Going into the ante-room I found no
one there except Kegworthy. It was Sunday, and the
others were all out or having a bit of extra sleep.
"There's been an old boy up here asking for you.
He said he'd come back again later/' said Keg-
worthy, adding as an afterthought, "Have a drink."
I mention the afterthought because it was a too-
frequent utterance of his. Kegworthy was one of the
most likeable men at the Depot; there were only two
formidable things about him: his physique—he was
a magnificent heavy-weight boxer—and his mess bill
for drinks. I had seen several fine men trying to
drown the War in whisky, but never a more good-
humoured one than Kegworthy. There were no half-
measures about him, however, and it was really get-
ting rather serious. Anyhow the mess-waiter brought
him another large one, and I left him to it.
On my way across the barrack square I saw some-
one coming through the gateway. He approached
me. He was elderly, stoutish, with a pink face and a
small white moustache; he wore a bowler hat and a
smart blue overcoat. His small light blue eyes met
mine and he smiled. He looked an extraordinarily
kind old chap, I thought. We stood there, and after
a moment or two he said "Blarnett". Not knowing
what he meant, I remained silent. It sounded like
some sort of Irish interjection. Observing my mysti-
fication, he amplified it slightly. "I'm Blarnett," he
remarked serenely. So I knew that much about him.
His name was Blarnett. But how did he know who I
was? But perhaps he didn't.
I have recorded this little incident in its entirety
because it was typical of him. Mr. Blarnett was a man